


The Fruit-Seller

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: AU, Gen, Historical, Historical AU, Regency, Romantic Friendship, mush, regency au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:37:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bored, wealthy, and grieving, Bodie meets a defiant, down-on-his-luck fruit-seller named Doyle... and finds an unexpected friendship.</p><p>(Historical AU - Regency era)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fruit-Seller

With many thanks for the beta by [](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/profile)[**anna060957**](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/). All mistakes are my own.

Art by **Kymericl** : <http://kymericl.livejournal.com/32243.html>

 

 

 

 

**The Fruit-Seller**

By Allie

Mr Bodie’s carriage travelled at a comfortable, sedate pace through town. Horse’s hooves clip-clopped along the cobbled stones. Bodie stared out the window in bleak boredom, slumped slightly forward, chewing on the handle of his mahogany cane. He realised what he was doing and sat up straight.

The ringing words of his father and the scolding ones of his tutor seemed to echo in his ears. He pulled out his handkerchief and rubbed off the saliva, looking around guiltily, for there was no one with him to see; indeed, that was part of the problem. He was properly bored with everything. The Season was starting to seem the same to him: one endless round of chatter, shooting, balls, gambling, parties, celebrations and excess.

In a word, he was bored. He needed something new and exciting to occupy him in what was fast becoming an intolerable boredom.

As a youth, he had wanted to run away and join the army or the navy. But of course, that had been impossible: as the eldest son, he needed to be prepared to step into his father’s shoes.

When he looked up from polishing his cane, his eyes alighted on a flower seller, a small old woman with a stooped posture and a hungry look. Her eyes implored him to buy a flower, the single red flower she held up. Impulsively, Bodie tapped the side of his carriage with his cane. "Buy it from her, Smith," he called to his driver. If he moved from the carriage, he would certainly be mobbed. A soft touch was always noted by beggars and they were always around. Whereas if Smith bought the flower for him—besides Bodie being low on any blunt less than a monkey in his pocket at present—it would be perfectly safe, respectable, and reasonable.

He could keep the flower to remind him of Marrika, the woman he had once loved. Royalty by marriage, she had been from Russia. It was perhaps unfortunate that they had fallen in love—and more unfortunate that they had given in to it. Her husband, the prince, found out. Whether he had been the one to issue the order or whether it was one of the many militaristic men who surrounded him Bodie was uncertain. Either way she was dead and gone.

Marrika’s death and the resultant scandal put Bodie’s reputation at risk. He knew people still talked about this rumour—incessantly, spreading it and keeping it alive.

After Marrika died, he hadn’t cared what society thought of him. He’d simply wanted everything to go away, or to kill.

Bodie’s father had been alive then. William didn’t know what he might have done if that venerable man had not come for him right away and bundled him into a coach for home.

There, at the country estate, he had rusticated and pickled his liver, damning society and princes (and himself) alike. It was not for some months before Cowley, one of his father’s ancient and totalitarian friends, had visited and spoken some rather brusque words to him that he had realised how far he was sinking.

He pulled himself out of the downward spiral—at least outwardly. Bodie hated showing the world how much something affected him.

Shortly afterwards his father died. Mourning as well as his new duties, and the new wealth and position this gave had consumed him. Some days he barely thought of Marrika at all.

Other times he did something as foolish and sentimental as buying a single red flower in her honour. She had always looked good in red; how her smile had seemed to gleam in her face, a single red flower in her healthy, gleaming hair. The image was burned into his head, a torment and a comfort to him.

Smith returned and offered him the flower through the window with one spotless white glove. Bodie waved it away, turning aside, regretting his sentimental gesture already.

His open window let in the smells of manure, coal fire, and someone’s tantalising baking. His mouth watered; somewhere nearby, cakes were being baked, huge and delicious, perhaps wedding-worthy.

Now something else caught his gaze from the window as their drive continued. A crude and humble barrow, neatly kept, with stacks of fruit and vegetables. The fruit-seller was calling in a coarse accent, "Apples! Cabbages! Peaches! Cucumbers!"

It must be hothouse fruit, at least some of it. He was surprised anyone could sell it on the street thus; must be quite expensive. However, as little as apples and cabbages interested him (and he had already had cucumber sandwiches earlier today), peaches would just about hit the spot at present. Even maudlin thoughts and grief left him hungry; Bodie was a man of prodigious appetite, even amongst a set that overindulged under ordinary conditions. Bodie, however, had always maintained a fit, muscular form from his boxing and riding.

He tapped his cane against the carriage again. "Buy some peaches, Smith," he ordered.

Then he heard something that changed his mind decidedly. "Apples, Cabbages, Peaches, Cucumbers!" repeated the voice of the seller—but now in the highest of posh accents, tones that would have pealed agreeably on the ears of the _ton._

He blinked once and peered out curiously to see who it was that had such a skill at mimicry.

What he saw gave him pause.

The man was curly-haired, chip-toothed, skinny and dressed in the ragged clothing of the working poor. He strode back and forth in front of his barrow, calling out his posh words with a knowing twist to his mouth and a gleam in his eyes. Advertising effectively, and thumbing his nose at all gentry at the same time.

Bodie laughed as he caught a glimpse of his eyes, green and sparkling with humour. And he thought, _This is it_. This was what he needed to amuse himself by creating a scandal, or putting one over on everyone in society: or simply because the man could make him laugh.

He thumped his cane decidedly against the carriage. Smith stopped quickly in front of the stand. The man ceased his calling and moved behind it.

"You want I should knock him down for you, sir?" called someone from nearby the carriage. An indignant-looking watchman strode nearer, official and indignant.

"No, thank you." Bodie smiled his most charming smile. "I wish to buy some peaches." And instead of calling Smith to do it for him, he alighted from the carriage. With the watchman there, no doubt expecting a tip (which Smith could provide), Bodie was safe from being surrounded by beggars. He could pick out his own peaches in peace.

He strode to the stand and smiled at the man disarmingly. "Are they quite fresh?"

"Yes sir." The scruffy man had retreated in more ways than one; his eyes glittered with wariness now and his voice was back to its humble origins.

"Ah, excellent. Can you tell me which greenhouse they were grown in?" He squeezed a peach with one immaculately gloved hand to see if it was ripe.

"Oi! Don’t bruise them." A slender, tanned, work-roughened hand with long, tapered fingers shooed him away. Startled but pleased by this display of spirit, Bodie pulled his hands back. The man picked up the peach and examined it, shooting a frown at Bodie. "You don’t know your own strength."

Bodie’s grin broadened. "And I suspect, sir, that you don’t know your own. That mimicry was impeccable. And unless I miss my guess, you would be perfect for a scheme I have in mind. You would be unwilling to do anything that could make the _ton_ look foolish, though, I suppose?" His grin challenged the fruit seller.

The man’s green eyes regarded him from his wary face, searching and distrustful. Then a feral grin bright as the sun answered in return. "Don’t think I’d mind that a bit, guv," was the cheeky reply.

Ah. Now we were getting somewhere. "Then perhaps," said Bodie, extracting a card with a flourish, "you will come to this address to-morrow morning and present yourself, and we shall have some business to discuss. Always assuming, of course, that your vocal talents go further than calling for foodstuffs."

A competitive flash in green eyes proceeded before the first of the very, very correct words the man uttered in round and lazy tones. "I believe that would be amenable. Till tomorrow, then." And he sketched a deep, mocking bow that earned a thump from the onlooking watchman before Bodie could stop it.

Unfortunately, in all the excitement, he completely forgot to buy peaches. His mouth watered for them the whole way home.

#

"Sir. A man named Doyle wishes to see you." The butler, Ainsley, presented a card upon a tray. His expression was less than approving. The card was Bodie’s own, slightly grubby now. "He brought with him some peaches. I can only assume he means to sell them to you. I would have turned him away, but you said to expect someone out of the ordinary bearing your card. He is waiting in the kitchen."

Bodie suppressed a grin. "Send him in. Oh, and prepare me two of the peaches to eat fresh. Please inform the chef to use the rest as he sees fit to prepare something for this evening." His grinned at the thought. It would be enjoyable to await the surprise.

Ainsley bowed, slightly disapprovingly, and retreated. A few moments later, Doyle was shown in, cap in his hands. He regarded the butler warily and kept a wide berth. Though his clothes were nearly as scruffy as those from yesterday—rough workman’s wear all in browns and faded greys—he had obviously made an effort to straighten himself up, having loosely tied a festive red kerchief around his neck. His clothes were also less ragged than yesterday’s and his hair looked freshly combed, the curls soft and neat. He stopped in front of Bodie, who regarded him closely.

"You wished to see me about a trick." The man’s eyes were wary; they peered out at Bodie from a face that, at first glance, seemed all wrong, round and pugnacious as if to cover the hints of vulnerability about it. His mouth was far too full. Slanted green eyes showed every emotion playing on his face. He had very straight posture despite his obvious nervousness.

He was also far too thin, but that could not be helped, Bodie supposed. Unless he could fatten the man up in a short period of time, he would have to be referred to as one who had been sickly. Sickliness would actually be a convenient back story: he had been in India for his health, recently recovered, was not adept at society and knew no one. Yes; it might work.

Bodie smiled at the man graciously.

"You’ll pay me for me peaches, of course?" The pugnacious wariness in that surprisingly deep voice—and the accent in it—made Bodie frown.

"But of course. I also wish to pay you more than that if you will collude with me in a farce."

The green eyes looked blank for a moment. "What about the trick?"

Bodie suppressed a sigh. "That’s what I meant. If you can do your upper class voice consistently, I believe I can use you to put a trick over on the gentry that we will both enjoy. I’ll say you are my cousin from India who was sickly. You will attend several society functions with me before we reveal your true origins and show what fools they have been. Or perhaps I will end it another way; I haven’t decided. The important thing is for me to know the joke, whether I reveal it publically or not."

Doyle frowned. "Sounds dangerous, sir."

"It isn’t, not for you. I assure you you’ll be under my protection, and that carries a great deal of weight. I shall pay you for your troubles of course."

At the alert look in those green eyes, Bodie hesitated. He had meant to offer a lump sum, but it seemed like a bad idea now. This man was of very low birth, and who knew how trustworthy he might be.

"I shall pay you one pound for each day of successful completion of our farce. I shall pay you nothing for the days you spend in my household first, preparing more thoroughly for your role, but you’ll receive clothing and good food and housing. It will not be a small investment for me."

Doyle frowned. "Suppose we don’t carry it off even one day? I’ll get nothing."

"You will get instruction, food, shelter, and new clothing. That is a great deal," said Bodie severely. Doyle met his gaze stubbornly, his mouth set in a line. Bodie smiled. "All right; if you fail—which I trust you will not—then I shall pay you what I deem fair anyway."

"What would that be?"

Bodie hesitated. He did not wish to seem either generous or miserly. He had a feeling this Doyle meant to get all he possibly could from this, and Bodie didn’t want to be an easy touch. "Very well. I shall give you the wages a common labourer would earn for whatever days you have spent in my company and under tutelage."

Doyle nodded. "Fair’s fair. All right, guv, when do you want me to start?" He turned his cap in his hands, holding it by the edge. It was his only sign of nervousness—except his eyes.

"Right now, I think. My man will see that you get a bath and some clean clothes."

"Clean...? But these are clean!"

"Well, clothes befitting your new supposed station, then. You will go with him now and cooperate, please. I wish to go through with this farce, but if you do not cooperate—"

"Yeah, yeah. I hear you, guv," muttered the man sullenly, glowering.

"And less of that, if you please. You shall refer to me as ‘Bodie,’ and you will use your upper class manners and speech exclusively now, to the extent you have learned, and I expect that to increase all the time. If you think you are up to it."

Doyle’s head shot up. His posture straightened again, his spine rigid. "Very well, Bodie," he said in a crisp accent.

Their eyes locked and Bodie felt as though it were a sort of contest. He, however, was not feeling competitive, having already got everything he wanted. He smiled magnanimously, the smile which a friend had once referred to as his sleek, well-fed cat look. "I shall also pay you for the peaches."

"I’d rather have that payment now, g—Bodie," said Doyle. "So I have some pocket money." He managed the accent well, though a truly well-bred man would never speak of money thus, and would instead treat everything to do with money carelessly to outward appearances.

But Bodie simply nodded. "Speak with Ainsley. He will see you right."

"Begging your pardon, but I would rather have it from you."

"Well, I never carry small money on me. Now be off with you. I expect to see you clean and better clothed soon."

Doyle’s eyes narrowed.

The door opened as if on cue, allowing Bodie’s man to enter. "Sir. You sent for me."

His name was Harlow, and he was an excellent valet, no one better at polishing boots or helping Bodie to keep in excellent style. However, Bodie always tied his own neckcloths. They were his one extravagance, the rest of his clothing following the tasteful, simple styles advanced by Brummell. He also kept his hair short, and bathed frequently following that man’s example.

Harlow’s eyes narrowed as though he seeing a particularly loathsome specimen. He sceptically regarded Doyle standing on the carpet in front of Bodie’s chair.

"Yes, Harlow. This man will be working for me. I wish him to be outfitted as a man befitting his new assumed station—that of my equal. You must take him away for a bath. See that he is thoroughly—and I do mean thoroughly—clean. Please also check him for lice, infestations of every sort, and if necessary call a physician to come and treat him."

Doyle let out an offended squawk. "I’ll have you know I--!"

Bodie held up peremptory hand.

Harlow’s eyes shut in imagined agony, but Bodie continued as if they had not. "I shall wish to see him outfitted properly within a week. In the meantime, a few pieces from my wardrobe last year can be adjusted for his size. Do go now, or I shall have to reconsider the outrageous salary I pay you. Oh, and you have may some of the footmen to help you if necessary." He turned to smile cheekily at Doyle. "I assume he will go along without that need, however?"

Doyle was giving him a rigid glare with highly offended sparks in his green eyes. "I am not infested. And I resent the implication that I cannot bathe myself. If anyone lays a hand on me there will be consequences!" He still spoke in his high accent and Bodie could not help smiling at the spirit he displayed.

"Very well. He shall watch and see that you do. If you do not—"

"I shall leave, if anyone lays a hand on me," repeated Doyle. "And you won’t threaten me if you know what’s good for you." He turned on his heel and stalked from the room, shoulders high and curls bobbing.

Bodie grinned. Things had, at least, grown more interesting!

#

Bodie’s curiosity got the better of him, of course. He went into the room where Doyle was being bathed only to find a miserable, towel-wrapped, dripping, green-eyed man with flattened curls standing in bare feet whilst the water—quite brown—was being changed.

"I thought you said you were not dirty?"

Doyle’s response was a disheartened sniffle. He was shivering.

"Come, stand before the fire," said Bodie. "Another towel for him."

Mouth set in disapproval, Harlow handed over another towel. Bodie draped it over his protégé. He knew he was being soft-hearted, but it would be difficult to be stern with such a pathetic, drowned-rat Doyle, all the fight kicked out of him by a little water.

He noted that Doyle was slimmer yet without clothing, but surprisingly well-muscled. He had a slender build and not an ounce of fat on him; you could see his ribs. But his muscles were well-defined. "Your tan will not fade for some time. India is indeed the best explanation."

Doyle snuffled again. Bodie smiled at him. "Think of supper and the lovely peach surprise we shall eat." He glanced at the re-filled tub. "Back in you go."

Harlow accepted the towels from Doyle with a martyr’s air. Doyle sank back into watery depths. Steam from the hot water filled the room. Doyle accepted soap and a cloth, and mournfully went back to washing, pausing once in a while to sneeze.

"The soab geds up my doze," he explained.

"I ache for your suffering." Bodie allowed himself the faintest of smirks. Sure enough, it brought back Doyle’s fighting spirit; he began to scrub harder and scowl at Bodie.

Bodie excused himself and left, well-satisfied with progress.

He was having a leisurely pre-dinner drink later when the butler came and informed him that Doyle was dressed.

"Excellent. Send him in to have a drink with me and call us when dinner is served."

"Sir." He retreated.

In a few moments he escorted Doyle into the room, now clothed in a very old suit which Bodie had grown out of years ago. It nearly fit Doyle; they were close to the same height. His hair was still damp but the rest of him looked well-groomed. He had stopped sniffling but looked weary and almost vulnerable.

"Well, you will be quite the gentleman now," observed Bodie. "Have a drink."

Doyle hesitated. "Are you certain? I could wait in the kitchen—"

"We must begin as we mean to go on. Now have a seat, man. Ainsley, fetch Doyle a drink. By the way." He addressed his guest. "You haven’t told me your given name."

"Raymond. Ray." He swirled the glass and he stared into amber liquid. He sipped cautiously, and his brows rose.

Bodie grinned. "Good, isn’t it?"

Doyle nodded fervently and sipped again.

Bodie found he was enjoying seeing how much showed on this man’s tough yet vulnerable face—though perhaps it would be a problem, in the game.

"I’m hiring a tutor for you tomorrow," said Bodie abruptly.

"It’s your money," said Doyle.

"Well, I can hardly teach you everything myself. Most people have a lifetime to learn what you must. You can watch me throughout dinner, however, and see if you can use the correct utensils in mimicry."

Doyle nodded. He looked hungry; Bodie hoped he would be able to fatten him up a bit in the days ahead.

Dinner would be, as usual, fashionably elaborate with many courses even though only Bodie and Doyle were present. Bodie had an excellent chef running his kitchens and expected to enjoy the fruits of his skill every day. He had often remarked that he could get a better meal at home than he could at any club.

When the butler informed him that dinner was served, both men made their way to the dining room. Doyle moved cautiously, as if still feeling his way out in the new clothing. His eyes travelled the walls of Bodie’s home, and Bodie seemed to see it anew through his guest’s eyes: the paintings, lavish wallpapering, scrollwork and beautiful furniture.

In the dining room, Doyle looked so small across the table from him, with his napkin tucked into his shirt, a wary and concerned expression on his face vying with one of extreme, almost lustful hunger.

"Try to curb yourself," said Bodie when the man began to slurp his soup as if he wished to scrape the paint off the bottom of the bowl. "It is better to make no sound whilst eating, and you must save room for the other courses. There are plenty to come, I promise you, and you mustn’t forget the dessert made with your peaches."

Doyle allowed himself to be led, though his hungry eyes followed the servants when they took away his nearly finished bowl, as if he wanted to follow and wrench it from their hands.

"Patience is rewarded," said Bodie, trying to hide his smile when he saw Doyle’s expression at the sight of a whole roast chicken appear at the table. Doyle sat very still, eyes very large in his head whilst Ainsley carved, first a large slice for Bodie, then another large slice for Doyle. This time, and throughout the rest of the meal, he did not try to curb Doyle’s appetite. It was rare to find a man who enjoyed food as much as Bodie without seeming like a glutton. Perhaps only in a half-starving man could do so.

At the end of the meal, Doyle had eaten so much he seemed to have difficulty moving. His eyes were hooded and he looked a little glazed. "You see, my dear sir, you must pace yourself," said Bodie.

Doyle nodded ruefully. "Thank you for the fine meal. It was the best I’ve had in ages."

Bodie blinked in surprise, both at the thanks, which he had not expected, and— "What do you mean, ‘ages?’ Surely it is the best you have _ever_ eaten."

"No, sir. The best meal I ever ate was a meat pasty down by the docks when I had not eaten for a day and a half."

"Ah. Indeed," said Bodie. "Ainsley, will you show Doyle to his room?"

Ainsley turned and walked out of the room with a stiff back, not waiting to see if Doyle followed. Doyle rose hurriedly, cast Bodie a look that was half questioning, half apologetic.

"Go on, man." Bodie smiled and made a shooing motion. Doyle went.

Bodie moved to the library to have another drink and a cigar. He thought of Doyle, going to bed in one of the many spare rooms: one of the smaller ones, because Ainsley was certain to give him the worst room he could find, without Bodie specifically ordering him not to. Nor would it do his guest any harm to be in a poky little room, to remember his place whilst not acting. He imagined his overfed guest curling small on a thin mattress, yawning his head off and dropping off right away.

Doyle had kept him occupied; he hadn’t been brooding over Marrika. Perhaps even he would sleep well tonight. And tomorrow he would hire Doyle’s tutor and go for a long, wearing ride to tire himself out for tomorrow night. Perhaps he should move Doyle to his country house so they would have more privacy to practice his manners. He rolled the thought over in his mind without coming to a decision, and was still pondering it when he went to sleep.

#

Bodie stretched and smiled as he awoke, feeling well-rested and pleasant and happy for some reason this morning, a reason that he could not at first remember. Then he did: Doyle, his new toy, new game, new project! He would be such a fun trick to pull on the _ton_.

Bodie went to breakfast with the agreeable feeling that his guest would be waiting for him, ready to indulge and revel in breakfast. Instead, he was alone. He began to eat kippers, feigning indifference: but at length he gave it up and turned to Ainsley. "Where is Doyle?"

"He is too ill to come to breakfast, sir. He was ill last night and up a great deal."

Bodie stopped chewing. "Have you called the doctor?"

"I shall if you wish it, sir."

"Please do." Bodie finished eating his breakfast, told himself he didn’t want any more kippers, and then asked Ainsley to show him to Doyle’s room. It was, indeed, a small room: a servant’s room dark and airless, far worse than Bodie had expected. Bodie cast a look of reprimand to his butler and then turned his attention to Doyle. He was curled as small as Bodie had imagined, and he seemed to be clutching his stomach with a look of pain. He was very pale and had dark circles under his eyes.

"Are you all right, Doyle?"

He looked so very vulnerable curled on his side. His nightgown was slipping off his shoulder, revealing the tight, corded muscles there beneath bronzed, velvet-looking skin. Doyle twitched and twisted and uttered a groan.

Bodie found his hand hovering, reaching down. He drew back at the last instant. This was still a business arrangement, and he didn’t mean to coddle Doyle.

The doctor arrived, and Bodie withdrew from the room. He waited impatiently for the physician to emerge. When he did, he gave Bodie a reassuring smile.

"He will be fine. I have dosed him and he should feel better within the day. However, we had a little discussion about what he eats, and he must take more care. Apparently, Doyle has lived on a diet of brown bread, dripping, and half-rotten fruit and vegetables for the last six months. The meal he ate last night was far too rich for him. I recommend nothing until tomorrow except hot, sweet tea. Tomorrow he may have brown bread, and not too much of it. Instead of dripping and rotting food, feed him soup and a small amount of fresh fruit. He should eat a little more every day until he grows stronger and used to different foods. Under no circumstances must he stuff himself with rich foods until he has adjusted."

"Oh." Bodie regarded last night’s meal in a different light.

It was certainly going to take some time before Doyle was up to snuff, in more ways than one.

#

"So, your barrow did not fare terribly well? Bread and dripping and bits of rotten things?"

Doyle, wrapped in a blanket and huddled before the fire in the library, glared at him. He held a cup of hot, sweet tea and he had a miserable sort of air about him, as if he’d brought suffering and sickness and ill-temper with him. But Bodie was not put off.

"I thought with all your confident skills you would be a more successful fruit seller."

"It’s not me stand."

"What?" said Bodie, smile disappearing.

Doyle gave him a cautious look. "It’s not me—"

"It’s not WHAT?"

"It’s not mine." Doyle got the accent right this time. He glowered out at Bodie from behind his blanket and his tea and his misery.

"So your liveliness, your pride, that is all a farce? You’re poor and sickly, living on refuse, yet you hold your head up high as if you are my equal. Well? Explanation?"

An offended glare. "That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?" He stirred his limbs and began to rise, sloshing his tea as he did so.

"Never mind," said Bodie, rising instead. "Stay where you are and rest. But I shall find out more about you someday, you mark my words."

Doyle eyed him with hostility. "You and all, mate."

Bodie stopped. "What was that?"

"I SAID, ‘You and all, MATE!’" Doyle leaned forward, sloshing his tea more and glowering in the way one could only when feeling truly horrible.

Bodie regarded him, torn between annoyance and amusement. "In that case, I will leave you to it."

#

Because Doyle was not healthy enough for a full fledged tutor yet, Bodie took his time and asked around carefully.

In the meantime, he called his tailor to come over and measure Doyle and begin outfitting him. Doyle was utterly miserable, standing in his ragged small-clothes while the tailor and his assistant poked, prodded and measured Doyle like a large doll.

Bodie had to leave the room because he was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to find some way to make his ragdoll cheer up.

At last he found a tutor who had the sort of impeccable record that made Bodie wonder why the man wasn’t already working at a top school or for a wealthy family. He hired the man on the spot and sent him to his country estate.

Then he and Doyle (outfitted in new wardrobe and miserable with his diet), moved to the country estate as well.

The ride was long. Doyle looked out the window with interest, spoke little unless questioned directly, and began yawning his head off before they were halfway through the journey.

"You’re a lightweight, aren’t you?" asked Bodie, trying to get a reaction from him. "How were you strong enough to survive on your own all these years?"

This earned him the glare he rightfully deserved. "I’m not used to travelling. That doesn’t mean I’m a lightweight. It’s your carriage that’s the bone rattler."

"It’s not the carriage, Doyle. It’s your little arse. You’re too scrawny by half."

"You never mind me arse."

The smile left Bodie’s face. "What did you say?"

"My arse. Never mind _my_ arse." Doyle’s face was pinched and defiant.

Bodie gave him a smile. "Good lad. We’ll be stopping soon. Here, fold up this blanket and sit on it." Doyle glared, but snatched it from him and obeyed.

A few minutes later, he cast Bodie a faintly embarrassed, grateful look. Bodie smiled in return and they passed the next hour in perfect harmony, not speaking but passing a flask back and forth occasionally.

At their next stop, a post house for a meal and a rest, he ordered up as sumptuous a meal as could be prepared—and brown bread, soup, and an apple for Doyle.

"I hate you," said Doyle in a conversational voice, staring at Bodie’s face as if hoping for some reaction, almost daring him to react.

"You may hate me all you wish. We are following doctor’s orders."

Doyle tried a different tack. When Bodie’s food came, Doyle’s large, green eyes followed every bite Bodie ate. Doyle watched bites of beefsteak travel from the plate to Bodie’s mouth. He watched each careful chew. Doyle was not well enough yet to be moved from his careful diet, but he was well enough to want more: to want what Bodie ate.

"Perhaps we should not eat together after all, Doyle," suggested Bodie. "You may sit in the kitchen, in your new clothes, and everyone can stare at you." He raised one eyebrow.

Doyle reached for his last slice of bread and regarded it. Slowly, he began to roll pieces of it into balls, looking at Bodie pointedly as he did so. He picked up one of the balls and threw it at Bodie across the table.

Bodie could not quite help flinching and blinking. Doyle’s smile spread wide. It was worth it; it was worth everything to be the cause of that (faintly malicious, deliciously pleased) smile.

Doyle threw another bread ball. This time Bodie didn’t flinch; it bounced off his chest and onto his plate. He picked it up and threw it back.

#

Bodie took a satisfied sip of his hot chocolate and waited for Doyle to join him at breakfast. He was enjoying their daily meals together, especially now that Doyle could eat more heartily without feeling sick or bringing it up again.

Bodie felt a protective fondness for his protégé, the slender, stroppy, highly expressive man with the bouncy curls and extraordinary flexibility.

His mind slid back to yesterday with reminiscent pleasure. They had sparred in shirtsleeves, practicing the sort of boxing Bodie told him he’d need to know for Gentleman Jim’s.

However, he had enjoyed it more for its own sake than whatever training it would give Doyle. Against all odds, Bodie had found himself nearly equally matched. Despite his slimness, Doyle had a lightning-fast speed, and iron muscles lurked beneath his tanned skin.

It had been an enjoyable meeting of the minds, as well as fists, will, and strength of character. Doyle’s eyes could be so very expressive, showing exactly what he felt and believed and that he would die before give in.

But he had given in eventually. Bodie got the upper hand and pinned him. Doyle had wriggled and struggled, but in the end been forced to give in.

His breath had been ragged; Bodie’s as well. He’d given his new friend a hand up and a wry smile, and poured him a drink afterwards. Doyle had drunk, slim hands eloquently wrapped around his glass, sharp, green slanted eyes watching Bodie over the rim of his glass.

Doyle’s feathers had been ruffled and the martial look in his eyes had not died down for some time. He seemed twitchy, as if he could not separate play fighting from a real, life-or-death fight, and kept expecting to find himself attacked again.

Two hours later, Bodie had found Doyle curled in a chair before the fire, sound asleep, his mouth open. Bodie had wondered if Doyle was really up to snuff yet.

They’d been feeding him strengthening meals, of which Doyle had been partaking in a reasonable measure and with unspoken pleasure, as if he were soaking in the unexpected, still halfway-unbelieved pleasure of having enough food and a soft bed to sleep in, and no harsh words. For Bodie was kind to him, always. He liked the spark in his new friend and wished in no way to quash it.

When Doyle grew obstreperous, Bodie enjoyed it, even encouraged it. It was somehow delightful to have someone so expressive and alive enter his life, to live it alongside him and learn and eat and fight with him.

Strange how distracting and pleasant it was to have someone here under his care, to teach and care for, and enjoy the presence of. He would have found a waif to take under his wings long ago if he’d known it would distract him so well from his grief at Marrika’s death and boredom. Of course, where could he have found someone like Doyle? He was certainly something out of the ordinary, and altogether enjoyable to have around.

Faint footsteps entered the room and Bodie looked up, a smile on his face and a remark on his lips, which never got said; Doyle had a face like thunder.

"What’s wrong?" asked Bodie, gaze fastened on that expressive, furious face.

"I shan’t stay a moment longer—not one moment." Doyle paced the room with long, angry, stabbing steps. He was so very fierce and lithe in his anger; he was amazing and terrifying to watch. But Bodie was all concern now.

"Why?" he asked in a flat voice, compressing his lips together to keep from saying more, asking him why he should want to leave, now or ever.

"He’s treating me like a bloody slave and I won’t—I WON’T—put up with it a moment longer." He cast Bodie a quick, angry look. "And I don’t CARE if me accent is slipping b-because he is NOT allowed to threaten me nor slap my wrists with a ruler if me—my penmanship isn’t good enough."

Bodie rose and was by his side. "Did he?" He took the slim wrists, turned them over. Doyle, still bristling with rage, stilled and let him, but his hands clenched into fists.

Bodie spotted several red marks on the slender wrists, as if from repeated blows.

"I shan’t stand for it," said Doyle again in a low, almost sulky voice, but one that had lost its heat.

"I see. Neither shall I." He touched the red marks with his thumb, almost a caress, then released Doyle. "You’re not a child, that you should be beaten. I’ll speak to him."

"I’m not a child at all. Bodie." For a moment, they were looking into each other’s eyes and Doyle’s held hurt and some sort of agony and a query Bodie did not understand. It seemed as though his green eyes were saying ‘ _Why_?’

Bodie swallowed. He never wished to see Doyle so unhappy; it had become important to him for him to take care of this man. "I shall fix it, Doyle. Sit down and have your breakfast. I shan’t be long." He gripped Doyle’s arm, then moved past him and out the door, his strides long, his face hard.

#

"I shan’t have him hit."

The schoolmaster puffed up like an angry cat. "You agreed—I particularly told you that I had to be given free rein. You were not to interfere."

"You aren’t listening. I shan’t have him hit," said Bodie grimly. "He is to be treated like a gentleman—my equal, a man who needs polish, but deserves respect."

The man snorted. "He’s a sewer rat. I certainly shall not—"

Bodie felt a red rage before his eyes. He took a deep breath. "In that case I must ask you to leave. Please pack your bags and be gone by tomorrow."

The tutor gaped at him with a look of shock and growing outrage. "But—"

"Good day, sir."

Bodie turned his back on him and left the room. No one called Doyle a sewer rat.

He rejoined Doyle in the breakfast-room and saw curious, nervous green eyes—like a cat’s, Bodie suddenly decided. He was like a cat; curious, handsome in his own way, mysterious and watchful—and brave despite his vulnerabilities.

He felt Doyle’s probing gaze on him, and wondered how long it would be before the man dared query him. He could feel Doyle’s tension and concern. His posture tensed as he noticed Bodie’s tension, and now Doyle wasn’t eating.

"He shan’t return," said Bodie, reaching for another kipper. "I’ve sent him away. I’ll teach you myself until I can find someone better."

Doyle sat as though stunned for a moment—and then a slow, incredulous, huge, white smile spread across his face. He looked like a man who had received a pardon. "Ta. I mean—thanks." He reached for another piece of toast, and bit into it with a renewed, roaring appetite. He had not eaten so heartily for days.

In spite of his residual anger, Bodie felt himself beginning to smile. "I shan’t take it away from you, you know."

"Yes," said Doyle. "I am beginning to realise that."

It seemed such a sad and complicated thing to say that, hours later, Bodie was still not sure he knew exactly what Doyle meant.

#

"Have you ever ridden?" asked Bodie, eying Doyle, who now sat most uncomfortably on the back of a horse. Whilst he sat the horse tolerably well, Bodie had witnessed him clamber up awkwardly and saw the worry in Doyle’s cloudy green eyes. It was with difficulty that he kept his smile hidden, for he knew the answer already: and the man’s pride.

"Of course," said Doyle in a strained voice.

"Just so," agreed Bodie. "Then let us be off." He mounted his own horse with what he knew was enviable ease—he could feel Doyle’s gaze upon him. Doyle had a great deal more difficulty mounting, even with help from the groom. But soon they were riding side by side. Doyle very obviously didn’t know what he was doing. Even keeping to a walk, Bodie was ahead. Doyle didn’t know what to do with the reins, or how to instruct the horse with his knees. If he had once (for indeed he rode like a man trying desperately hard to remember something he had once known), he had forgotten or never learnt properly.

Eventually Bodie took pity on him. "Follow my lead, eh?" He slowed his horse further and showed Doyle how to hold the reins, instructed him regarding his knees and posture, and Doyle followed with the skill of a born mimic, the way he did with language so that sometimes, Bodie was tempted to forget there was anything uneven in their stations.

Even the gentle mare Bodie had chosen for Doyle seemed too large for him at first, though Doyle gained confidence. They proceeded at a slow pace. Bodie found himself enjoying the autumn colours more than he had in this past age, seeing them with Doyle by his side.

And now, Bodie found, they were alone, truly alone, for the first time in perhaps as long as he had known Doyle. Always there had been a servant waiting nearby, outside the door or in the room, practically invisible to Bodie but, he now realised with a startled feeling, constraining to Doyle. Because of course Doyle didn’t think of servants as fixtures, though he had learnt to ape the manner of being accustomed to being waited on. In all likelihood, these men and women would have looked down upon him and snubbed him in his old life; it was perhaps no wonder he felt constrained. The thing that made him realise Doyle’s constraint was the other man’s speech.

"Why do you really want me here, Bodie?" His voice was deep and gruff, surprisingly so for a man of his wiry stature.

"What do you mean?" asked Bodie, to buy himself time.

"Your trick so far has brought you nothing but inconvenience and not the hint of a scandal or a laugh that you wanted—unless you find training me to be enjoyment enough." He cocked a sceptical look at Bodie, almost daring him to agree with that. Which of course would be true, though he doubted Doyle would appreciate hearing it. He had become more than an amusement to Bodie: but he was still an amusement as well.

Bodie replied, "I shall answer your question as thoroughly as you like, if you will first answer one of mine."

Doyle cast him a distrustful look, and then gave a jerk of his head in agreement. "Go on."

"Good man. Where did you learn to ape the speech of the ton, and why weren’t you an actor or something more than a fruit-seller half starved."

Doyle hesitated. "I was an actor. And I wasn’t half-starved; you simply always have so much food that—" He fell silent. "All right, I was half starved."

"You _were_ an actor."

"Aye. When I was a little lad. My mother’s an actress." He darted a quick glance at Bodie. "Does that surprise you?"

Indeed, it did: and yet it didn’t. Doyle was obviously accustomed to enough of a gentle life to have at least a fleeting understanding of it.

"Yes. I’m a bastard," said Doyle, as if forestalling a question. His mouth made a wry, grim twist. "I haven’t a clue who the old man is. I don’t care. I thought once he was Lord Halverson. He was the man who visited my mother from the earliest times I could remember, up until I was about seven. It came as a shock to learn the truth. I can’t imagine why; she never actually said he was, nor that she sold her... friendship... to a new protector whenever the old one tired of her."

He spoke in a reasonable tone of voice and yet Bodie heard the suppressed rage beneath it, something that drove Doyle still, made him dare to risk mocking the nobs from his fruit stand even when it could have earned him a great deal of trouble.

"You need say no more. Thank you for telling me," said Bodie, trying to give his friend an out. But Doyle was off and running now.

He gripped the reins tightly, staring into the distance. "I acted on stage when I was small. Always a few parts for children, you know, and I had ‘such lovely curls.’ I had my mother’s gift for lines and voices, and her penchant for showing off. When I was fourteen, it became time, apparently, for me to take a paramour. But I was far too angry with the things my mother did for survival and comfort to have any desire to enter that life." He cast Bodie a long, level look that held more than half a question in it.

Bodie saw now more than ever that Doyle was someone who’d been hurt. As strong and tough as he’d made himself (and as sarcastic and defiant as he could sometimes be), he was not past being hurt: he retained a vulnerability beneath that tough hide that he would rather no one saw, despite how much it sometimes hurt him. The sensitive son of an actress, discovering he had no father, had channelled his love of life through the stage till its demands and his mother’s situation became repugnant to him. Then he’d struck out on his own, so desperately poor he eventually turned to working for a fruit-seller, making barely enough to hold body and soul together. This was the man riding beside Bodie.

He had never wanted to comfort Doyle more.

"You said you would tell me why now," prompted Doyle, casting him a look that was frank and vulnerable and somehow wise beyond his years.

"What did you want to know again?" he asked, pulling himself back from the distraction of contemplating Doyle.

"Why you have me here. Why you’re training me." He kept watching Bodie’s face as if he could pry the secrets out by watching closely enough.

"I told you, I mean to play a joke on society." _And I’ve been so very lonely_.

Doyle’s lips pursed. "It is certainly a great deal of difficulty to go to for a joke."

"Yes," said Bodie. "But I’m quite bored, you know. You provide a challenge."

"Indeed. I wonder what sort?" He cast Bodie an even franker look.

Bodie suddenly realised how it must have looked at times to the fastidious, angry Doyle, and cursed himself for leaving any doubt there: this explained Doyle’s occasional distrustful or agonised looks. He was afraid he was meant to be a mollie boy, or perhaps rather a male mistress: a kept man, trained as a fashionable companion who could provide both sexual stimulation and a well-bred air.

"Ah. You must realise that if I’d had intentions on your...er...virtue, I would have made them clear sooner," said Bodie, as gentle a remonstrance as he could manage.

"Yes," said Doyle. "It seemed that way. And you didn’t act like you wanted me when you hired me. But once or twice I have wondered. I’m sorry I’ve doubted you," he finished quickly, turning away.

"Never mind," said Bodie.

He had to admit to himself there were times when he wanted to explore Doyle further: to touch his hair, run a hand down his slim arms, or wrap him up in a tight embrace and listen to his heartbeat. He did not expect to satisfy this gentle, lonely curiosity: but Doyle did fascinate him.

It hadn’t occurred to him to think of more; he didn’t want to bed Doyle.

Doyle swallowed. "I’m sorry for being so distrustful. I’ve learnt it the hard way." He cast Bodie a self-conscious glance, looking miserable and ashamed. "Forgive me, Bodie?"

"There is nothing to forgive," promised he. He smiled at Doyle. "And now you must tell me—who taught you how to ride so abominably poorly?"

As expected, Doyle bristled up. His embarrassment was soon forgotten as they rode on together, Bodie gently teasing and drawing him out.

#

"Is he in one of the hothouses again?" asked Bodie, of the gardener. There was no need to ask ‘who.’

"Yes sir. The pinery."

Bodie grinned. "He would be. Are they anywhere near ready to pick, then?"

"No sir. He likes the ‘shape of the plants,’ he said, sir."

Bodie tried not to smile, but did anyway. "Thank you, Bellows."

He hurried down the stone path to the pinery. Pineapples were a great luxury, and having a hothouse to grow them marked Bodie out as quite of the first order of wealth. That his family had so much money, but no title, had been the bane of his father and grandfather. They were expecting him to marry into the nobility and bring the family name forward in this generation.

The trouble with marrying into the nobility and bringing forward the family name, was that Bodie didn’t want to marry anyone unless he fell in love. It was perhaps an ironic thing, certainly a shame, that the only woman he had ever loved was a married princess, who was then killed by her husband.

_And I shall no doubt pay for that for the rest of my life._

Bodie doubted he could marry into the nobility now even if he was ready to drop the handkerchief and marry this instant. All the money in the world might make up for a scandal— _if_ you had a high enough title, but Bodie hadn’t.

The heavy, thick, almost tropical scent of the pinery hit him like a wave as he pushed open the door. He peered down at Doyle, who was seated on a little stool, facing the ‘interestingly shaped’ pineapple plants.

A smile warmed Bodie’s face, and he set aside his unhappy train of thought. That was one of the nice things about Ray; you could never brood over the past or feel sorry for yourself around him. His lot had been more difficult than Bodie could dream of living, yet Ray never pitied himself.

Impulsively, Bodie pulled up a stool and sat down next to Doyle. He looked over at him and grinned like a schoolboy. "Skipping lessons?" he asked in a silly voice.

Doyle turned to smile at him, looking pleased but not surprised by the sight of him. Doyle seemed so calm; he always looked more peaceful around nature, as if it soothed his soul.

"Hello. No, I’ve finished the things you gave me to do." He wrapped his hands around his knees.

"Soaking up the heat, like the cold-blooded creature you are?"

Doyle laughed. "I do like it here," he admitted. "But I’m no more coldblooded than you are!"

"Is it because you’re so scrawny and can’t stay warm elsewhere?" He gave Ray a friendly little nudge, leaning nearer to him, grinning.

Doyle turned to face him, looking irritated. "Scrawny? I’ll have you know that just because I’m not—" He swallowed his retort with effort and turned away.

"Go on, you can tell me, Ray," begged Bodie. "Were you about to call me fat?"

"Obese," said Doyle in a choking sort of tone. He set his jaw hard but the grin wouldn’t stay away.

"There, that’s better. I should think you were ill if you didn’t get stroppy with me."

"You always can get my goat, sir," said Doyle quietly. "But I never set out to be rude."

"I know you don’t, sunshine."

He didn’t know how to explain how much he liked to see Doyle’s spirit in evidence, even when it went against his rules. Indeed, he didn’t understand it himself, only that he was proud of Doyle for not giving in too easily about anything and for standing up for himself.

Instead of speaking again, Bodie snaked an arm around Doyle’s shoulder and neck, giving him a little squeeze. It was the closest he could let himself come to hugging Ray.

Instead of bristling or pushing him off, Doyle tolerated this. He even...sort of... _leaned_ against Bodie. It may have only been for an instant, but Bodie’s heart lifted. Perhaps Doyle was beginning to trust him after all!

#

"You will never get a dancing-master out here, and you know it." Ray sat on a couch with his long legs tucked up beside him and wound the music box again idly. He set it down and listened to it play. "Besides, I don’t at all wish to dance."

"You must and shall. I’ll teach you myself," said Bodie, in a fit of wild optimism.

Raymond gave him one of those sceptical gazes that seemed to look directly to his heart. "You?"

"You don’t think I can do it?" Bodie moved nearer, too close, and gave Doyle a dangerous sort of smile.

"I am sure you couldn’t." Doyle grinned back up at him, meeting the challenge with one of his own.

"Let us prove otherwise." Bodie and caught up Ray Doyle in his arms, dragged him to his reluctant feet, and began to guide him around the room to the tune of the music-box, teaching him the steps to a country dance, explaining the lines, the moves, the promenading to him. Doyle had never learnt to dance.

At first he felt Doyle’s stiffness and acute awkwardness, but as he proceeded in a teasing and light-hearted manner, Doyle began to relax.

Bodie was patient with his first, stumbling tension, guiding him into the easy movement that came so naturally to Doyle in most situations. "You will be a superb dancer, Doyle," he promised.

Doyle looked up at him with a worried, vulnerable look in his green eyes. "I won’t. I’ll never truly fit, and I’ll shame you."

"You couldn’t," promised Bodie. The music had slowed to the point where it sounded positively dreadful. Noticing, Bodie walked over to close the music box. "But perhaps I can get a friend of mine to help? You would feel more comfortable with a woman teaching you, wouldn’t you?"

"How can you do so without giving the game away?" Doyle flopped onto a couch, his gaze still on Bodie’s face. He seemed to go immediately boneless when he flopped. Bodie walked over to pour them both a drink, not wanting to bother calling the butler to do it for him. One couldn’t talk freely in front of servants.

"I know a few women who would be glad enough to help," said Bodie.

"Ah," said Doyle. For a moment, his gaze displayed what could only be distaste. "Forgive me, but no, I’d rather you teach me, even if you stomp on my feet in the process."

Bodie’s chin rose and his eyes opened wider. He swallowed his gulp of brandy. "Sunshine, never tell me you’re too moral to spend time with women of easy virtue?"

"You mean like actresses?" asked Doyle with awful sarcasm. His mouth twisted in bitter, angry lines.

Bodie swallowed his retort. Of course; such women reminded him of his mother and her life, the thing he had never been able to truly accept as a natural order in life. That alone marked him as not of the _ton_ , Bodie thought. It was the accepted order for members of the upper classes.

Bodie delivered Doyle’s drink to him and sat down beside him on the couch. "I’ll keep teaching you, then."

"Ta," said Doyle quietly. (Bodie decided not to correct him, this once.) Doyle looked down into his drink without tasting it, staring at the smooth, reflective liquid. "I’m sorry to be so much trouble."

"You aren’t. You aren’t." Bodie gave Doyle’s curls a swat. Doyle’s head rose, alert and indignant, and Bodie couldn’t resist giving him a cheeky grin. "Cheer up, sunshine, or I’ll make you practice your handwriting again!"

Doyle grinned reluctantly in reply. "You’ll try."

#

"Sir?" asked the chef in bewildered tones. "You wished to see me. Was there something wrong with the meal, sir?"

Bodie looked at the unhappy, distrustful expression of his chef and realised the impression he had accidentally sent. "Oh, no, no. I am more pleased with your efforts than I can possibly say. It’s not about that."

The chef looked mollified. "Thank you, sir. Then what is it about, if I might be so bold? I’ve a roast to get back to."

"Of course. I won’t keep you but a moment more. Tell me, do you prepare my chocolate yourself, every day?"

"Yes sir." He was bristling again.

"How about Ray Doyle’s?"

The chef shrugged. "I have one of the staff make it."

"Well, it is nice to be singled out for your excellent fare. But I wonder whether you can... have whoever makes it... do a somewhat richer brew for Doyle? More cream, you know."

The chef stared at him with understanding. "Is this because that stripling won’t eat hardly enough for a bird?"

Bodie had difficulty schooling his features. Doyle ate heartily. He also exercised heartily and was of a slim build. Bodie couldn’t help wanting to fill it out, but he didn’t blame Doyle for being so thin after years of hardship. Nor was Ray’s appetite paltry simply because he couldn’t put away as much as Bodie.

The chef must’ve misinterpreted his expression. "Never mind, sir," he added hastily. "I’ll fix it myself! I’ll make it so full of cream that..."

"The spoon will float?" offered Bodie.

The chef looked momentarily puzzled. "Yes sir, if you say so, sir. Don’t you worry. I’ll fatten him up for you, whether he likes it or no." At a certain grim set of his jaw, Bodie began to wonder if he’d sent the wrong message.

"I’ve no wish for you to bully him into eating more, you know," he said quietly. "I’ll not have Mr Doyle bullied, even by you."

The chef cast him a startled look. "No, of course not, sir. I’ll trick him, that’s all. Trick him into drinking lots of chocolate."

"Thank you." Bodie’s mouth watered. Despite this being about Doyle, and despite it being the wrong time of day (neither night nor morning), he found he couldn’t resist asking. "By the way, will you make me a pot of chocolate now?"

The chef nodded. "Of course, sir. I’ll make you the best." He didn’t even look surprised by the request. The man had always had a high opinion of his talents, and a deserved one. And Bodie had always shown himself appreciative of those talents: perhaps it didn’t surprise the chef that the mere mention of chocolate should make Bodie want some.

It did surprise Bodie, but he managed to conceal it and was cheerfully drinking his second cup when Doyle walked into the library, cheerfully swinging a book in one hand. He cast Bodie a quick, happy smile. "Chocolate at this hour, Bodie? May I have some?"

Bodie smiled. He was already pouring.

The two sat in the library, savouring their treat. Doyle stretched out his long legs and held his cup just right, and didn’t slurp or gulp. Indeed, he looked quite the thing in his cream pantaloons and tight-fitted coat, his curls neat and clean, his face clear and calm today.

He lowered his cup and smiled at Bodie. "What?"

"You, sir, are the height of fashion," said Bodie ponderously. "Or you would be if you would wipe that chocolate moustache off."

Doyle gave him an offended blink, lowered his cup, and raised his sleeve.

"Raymond, if you use your sleeve—"

He caught sight of Doyle’s eyes then. They glittered with teasing humour.

"Go on, what?" Doyle didn’t lower his sleeve. "You were threatening me, why stop?"

Bodie laughed aloud. "I shall call you my messy urchin—and tell Harlow that you need another bath!"

Doyle grimaced and lowered his arm. "Ugh. Below the belt, Bodie!"

"You don’t wish to bathe?" asked Bodie, sipping his own chocolate to hide his grin.

"Oh, well, that’s all right, except when you make that slave driver supervise me. I can bathe myself, you know—but _urchin_." He shook his head slowly. "You do fight dirty!"

"Oh, I do, I do!"

#

"Sir George!" Bodie greeted his father’s old friend with unfeigned enthusiasm. "It is so good to see you."

Cowley’s visits to Bodie’s estate were rare, often unannounced—but always welcome.

"I have a particularly good malt scotch for you to try if you will accompany me," said Bodie benignly.

"Aye, I knew you would, laddie." Cowley smiled.

They spoke of acquaintances they held in common until they reached Bodie’s library. There, the discussion of the scotch took over the conversation and careful sampling became the order of the day. Cowley agreed it was a particularly good example.

He was halfway through his second glass when Doyle entered the room.

Bodie regarded him with affectionate pride. Doyle was looking particularly like a gentleman today, his clothes fitting so very precisely to his slender, muscular body. Bodie’s valet had tied Doyle’s neckcloth in a simple, becoming style and his longish curls were neatly stylish. More than that, he had developed a certain air. He no longer looked so hungry or alley-cat wary. There was something almost sleek and contented about Doyle now.

"Bodie, have you—" Doyle stopped abruptly at the sight of Cowley. "Oh! E-excuse me, sir." He offered a quick bow and began to retreat. "I did not realise you had company."

Bodie sent him a speaking look. _Don’t run. Mind your manners._

Doyle appeared uncertain, but he caught the look and interpreted it well enough to stay, though he looked like he wanted to flee.

"Doyle, this is Sir George Cowley. Sir George, this is Raymond Doyle."

"Yes." Cowley raised his quizzing glass and looked at Doyle through it, magnifying his already intimidating stare.

Doyle seemed nervous under it, but he kept his spine straight and met Cowley’s stare with a quiet, level look of his own. "I am very pleased to meet you, sir."

When it became apparent Cowley was snubbing him and meant to give him no reply, Bodie said, "What did you want, Doyle?"

Doyle cast him a glance. "I... wondered if you’d seen that book on poetry you lent me."

"Careless." Bodie clicked his tongue and walked to a shelf. "Here you are, old son." He retrieved and pressed the volume into Doyle’s hands.

"Where was it, sir?" enquired Doyle.

"The maid found it in your bedroom. You must have dropped it."

"Yes." Doyle looked exquisitely guilty, and Bodie realised with an inward delight that Doyle had given in to his bad temper and thrown it across the room—again—when he found he couldn’t understand it. He beat a hasty retreat.

Cowley watched closely. He continued to watch Bodie after Doyle had taken his leave.

"I wish you will be kinder to him, sir," said Bodie, removing to pour himself another drink. "Doyle is my particular friend."

"Your particular friend may be a conman, then." Cowley set down his glass. "Damn it, man, must I protect you from yourself?

"He’s certainly not bleeding me dry if that’s what you mean! I haven’t paid him a farthing yet."

"Indeed." Cowley’s mouth tightened. He tossed away the last of his drink and strode back for more. "Are you aware that he bears an uncanny resemblance to an onstage beauty? She was perhaps a bit before your time," he added reminiscently. He cast Bodie a penetrating look. "And she had a son who disappeared."

Bodie did his best to appear nonchalant, but his nostrils flared. "Simply because he was not as well-born as some doesn’t mean he’s not respectable."

Cowley turned away, shaking his head. "None so blind as will not see, laddie."

For once, Bodie found himself quite out of temper with his father’s old friend.

#

"Ray?" Bodie stopped suddenly in the doorway, then took a quick, convulsive step forward. He stopped himself from surging to Doyle’s side. "Are you all right?"

Doyle jerked up straighter, covering a yawn and dropping his hand from his side. He’d been sort of leaned—slumped—almost tragically against a wall, his curls drooping, rubbing his side. "I’m fine."

Bodie swallowed, and walked forward. "Are you sure?" Doyle had seemed a mixture between restless and tired ever since Cowley’s visit. Though only a few days long, the visit seemed to have had a profound effect on Ray. Cowley had not hidden his dislike of the curly-haired man, and Bodie could only hope he had not said something to upset him.

He poured them both a drink, and looked at Doyle carefully as he handed one over.

Doyle cast him a quick, engaging, chip-toothed grin. He took the glass. "Yeah, I’m sure!"

Bodie’s eyelids swept down and up again; he gave Doyle a look from beneath his lashes. "And what did we say about the speech you were going to use, Raymond?"

"I know, I know. But sometimes I get sick of you being the tutor." He walked past Bodie on arrogant, almost bouncy steps and gave him a punch on the arm.

It wasn’t a hard punch—in fact it was quite friendly—but it was enough to make Bodie snort into his drink.

His mouth curved up in outrageous enjoyment of Doyle’s cheeky nature, and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself from dashing after him to catch him up and give him a few fake-pummellings of his own.

#

Bodie walked into the library swinging his riding crop. He wore riding-clothes and his shiniest riding boots.

He stopped. The library was empty but for a maid putting out fresh flowers. No curly head bent over a desk, hard at studies. No expressive, grimacing Doyle shot him an indignant look over all the work he’d been assigned.

When he wasn’t exhausted, Ray had been restless, withdrawn, and unhappy since Cowley left. Bodie felt more and more certain that his old friend had said something unpleasant to Doyle, but had been unable to draw Doyle out on the subject, Doyle only saying stiffly that he didn’t know what Bodie was talking about.

"Where’s Doyle?"

The maid dropped a curtsy. "Sir, I believe he is in bed, sir."

"In bed? At this time of day? That lazy..." He broke off, realising whom he was speaking in front of. "Thank you, that’s all." He turned from the room and strode to Doyle’s quarters. He knocked twice and entered. "Doyle, if you..."

He stopped.

Only Doyle’s curls and the edge of his shoulder were visible. He lay in bed like one stricken down, so utterly still. He was a lump in the bed. Bodie’s throat closed up, and he was conscious of a heartbeat in the veins of his neck, fragile and frightened. "Ray..."

He walked over quietly and laid a hand on Doyle’s shoulder, pushing it a little bit, tilting him to get a better view of his face. Doyle’s eyes were plastered shut with hints of dark circles beneath them. His face looked so still and stark and vulnerable.

"Ray," said Bodie again, in a voice that felt odd in his throat. He brushed back the curls and felt for a temperature. Doyle’s skin felt normal, slightly warm from sleep but not hot.

At the touch, Doyle’s eyes flew open. He pushed back, moving away from Bodie and giving him a few startled blinks.

Bodie swallowed the lump in his throat, ridiculously pleased to see Doyle looking so quizzical and alert. "Are you—are you ill?"

"No, I simply got tired. Sorry." He yawned. Bodie could see his tonsils, all his chipped and misshapen teeth.

"Well, you don’t normally nap during the day, do you?" Bodie sat down on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on Doyle’s side through the blanket. The curve of his narrow waist felt so slim and his hipbone almost knife-like, despite the good food he’d been getting. Bodie gave him a pat.

Doyle grinned. "Not if I think you’ll catch me!" He flung back the covers and hopped up, sliding easily out from under Bodie’s touch. "No, sorry—I’ll get ready for that ride. I forgot." Doyle slid into his trousers and flung on a shirt, covering his body hair and soft/hard flesh. He still moved like an actor, Bodie thought: fluid and always at ease. Doyle bent for his boots and got into them on his own.

"A nice notion you have, forgetting me," said Bodie, preening like a peacock.

Doyle cast him a quick, lazy, grin. "But you’re so forgettable, sir."

Bodie rose smoothly from the bed and started for Doyle. Ray must’ve seen the snap of danger in his gaze; he laughed and hurried from the room. Bodie’s strides lengthened, but not enough to catch up with that coltish grace.

Doyle cast him a quick look back, eyes laughing, mouth opening to say something. Then he changed his mind and flung himself around again, elegant even in his heedlessness. He gave up the pretence of respectability and ran pell-mell for the stables.

And for once, Bodie forgot it as well, and chased after him.

He caught Doyle up at the stables, and Doyle whirled to face him, fists rising in a defensive position. His eyes snapped alert and too green, his chest heaving.

Bodie stopped, lowering his arms. "I’ll not beat you," he said, hating the edge of wariness in Doyle’s eyes that mixed with the humour and challenge.

"As if you could," said Doyle. He started towards the horses, but kept a sharp eye on Bodie as if expecting him to pounce.

Bodie grinned, feral and fierce. "Oh, I could. But you’re far too _tired_."

Doyle grimaced, his hands dropping to his sides at last. "It was just a nap." He moved to the horse he always rode.

Soon, they were both mounted and riding the grounds.

After they had gone some way, Bodie brought the subject up again. "Seriously, though, Ray, you are feeling all right, aren’t you?"

Doyle cast him a slow glance sideways. He’d been concentrating on riding, but now Bodie had his attention.

"Yeah, of course."

Bodie’s eyes flashed and his mouth tightened.

"‘Yes. Of course,’" corrected Doyle, almost snapping the words now. "Blimey, I can’t—"

"No, you can’t. If you are used to forgetting yourself with me, you’ll do it sometime when it matters."

"But it’s never going to matter, is it?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean you’re getting me used to this life, but not doing anything at all about your ‘joke.’ Your friend wasn’t fooled for an instant. And you haven’t even set up my false identity for me yet. Yet you expect people to believe I’m your _relative_. We look nothing alike." Awkwardly, Doyle urged his horse ahead.

Bodie caught him up and rode next to him, close. "Well, relatives don’t always look alike. And you know these things take time. I don’t wish to rush this." _And I like having you here_.

Doyle gave him a pursed-lip frown and a long stare. "Sometimes I think my studies with you will never come to an end, that you don’t mean to complete our bargain at all. Other times, I think you’re going to make me so perfectly like the ton that when I’m on me— _my_ —own again, I won’t be fit for anything else, you’ll have succeeded so well. And I don’t know how I’ll survive, even with all this money you’ll supposedly be paying me."

_I don’t want you to survive on your own. I want you to stay with me._

"Ray..."

"And that’s another thing. You would never call one of your contemporaries by his first name unless the two of you had grown up in each other’s pocket—and sometimes not even then. But you’re getting used to doing it with me. If you slip up and make a mistake in public..."

"All right, all right. Be quiet," said Bodie, feeling goaded.

Doyle cast him a quick, triumphant look and slapped the reins, pulling ahead.

Bodie caught him up again. "What did I tell you? Use your knees."

Doyle gave a low, frustrated growl in his throat. "Use your—I’m going to use your bloody knees in a minute! And yes, I just said ‘bloody’ and I don’t _bloody_ care!"

He awkwardly wheeled his mount and started back for the stables too fast for one of his abilities.

Bodie hurried after him, heart in his throat, afraid Ray would fall. Even as he thought so, he knew he was being foolish: Ray—Doyle—could survive nearly anything, and he wasn’t such a bad rider as all that.

At the stable, Doyle dismounted and let a groom take the reins. He started towards the house with long, jerky steps, not looking back.

"Doyle." Bodie caught his arm and swung him round, then released him immediately at sight of the prickle of anger in Doyle’s eyes. "Sorry. What’s all this about? What’s upset you?"

Doyle made an effort to loosen the tension of his shoulders. He stood straight and his gaze met Bodie’s directly, without any love lost in it. "Well, sunshine, you said it was a trick, but the only one who’s felt tricked so far is me."

"All right, what have I done so wrong?" His right hand gripped the back of Doyle’s neck, a soft spot despite the hardness and tension of his muscles.

Doyle glared, not quite meeting Bodie’s gaze, his eyes downcast. He didn’t say anything.

Bodie stared at him a moment, then caught his arm and hauled him towards the gardens. He knew from experience Doyle couldn’t speak freely with servants nearby. He found them a bench and sat down. They now faced a lush garden and the statue of a beautiful woman done in the Greek style and made to look like a relic.

He sat close to Ray, but not touching him now. Even though he wanted to. He wanted to feel the give and hardness of that tanned flesh, he wanted to poke at Ray, to get his attention, and to wrap arms around him and offer comfort. And most of all, he didn’t want Doyle to leave.

"’Tricked,’ you said," repeated Bodie in a flat voice. "I’ve _never_ tricked you."

"I’m sorry," said Doyle miserably. "You’ve been so good to me and all I can do is complain." He brought a hand up to his face and swiped at his nose. "It’s just so hard being your student forever. Then other times it’s as though we—you—as though I was your friend," he explained awkwardly. He cast a troubled look on Bodie.

"We are. I want us to be."

"But what happens when you grow tired of me, Bodie?" he asked in a small voice.

"That’s never going to happen. Look, if you’re worried about the pay, I can give you what you’ve earned so far, in labourer’s wages, and then if we pull off the trick, give you whatever else you earn then. You mustn’t think I’ll try to cheat you out of what I promised."

Doyle opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was looking dejected and a bit petulant, and quite sad. "Whatever you think."

"Ray..."

"Doyle!" snapped he, his chin rising, his eyes burning a cold green in his face, the lines of it now set like marble, chiselled and broken and hard. He rose smoothly. "I’ll be in my room—studying—if you want me, _sir_."

Bodie watched his curls bouncing as he left, and felt more frustrated and confused than ever. Doyle had been apologetic, and then he’d grown angrier than ever, almost as though he felt hurt.

Doyle was so hard to understand sometimes! Bodie sat on the bench for a while, brooding over the garden, trying to understand Ray Doyle. At length he gave it up, and went to see about supper arrangements. He was hungry for lobster today, and thought it would be good for Doyle, too. He still needed fattened up.

#

Over the next few days, Doyle was alternately friendly and distant, game for anything and petulant.

Sometimes his eyes held a kind of bitter distrust when he looked at Bodie, though he tended to hide it quickly enough.

Bodie went ahead and paid him a goodly wage, despite his misgivings. He was halfway afraid that Doyle would take off without even saying goodbye. But Doyle chafed at the bit so much lately that if Bodie didn’t loosen the reins a little he might simply bolt.

Bodie reviewed Doyle’s study, reducing the hours he expected him to work. He would look for another tutor, one with a better reputation, so that Bodie could be simply friend instead of teacher.

Doyle gave him one of those blank, disconcerting stares that seemed to look right through him. "But I’ll still be your employee. I don’t see what difference it makes."

Once again, Bodie felt as if they were speaking different languages. He wished Doyle wasn’t so difficult to understand.

#

"We may as well see some sport, old son," said Bodie, rising languidly from his couch and giving Doyle a grin. "Your studies have obviously proceeded apace already."

Doyle made a wry face at the reminder of how slowly he was moving in certain aspects. He’d been memorising a list of all the nobility’s titles and how they compared, who should be introduced to whom first, and what title referred to each person depending on their rank or relation to rank.

He seemed to grow increasingly frustrated with the intricate list and often moved away restlessly to practice instead the sword moves Bodie had begun to teach him. He made an elegant picture doing the thrusts and parries by himself, his face a mask of fierce concentration, curls flying and slim body humming with alert, tensed musculature.

Ray had been restless, withdrawn, and unhappy lately. But if asked what was wrong, he would reply stiffly that he didn’t know what Bodie meant.

Bodie hoped that a little expedition would take care of some of Doyle’s restlessness and irritability.

"Yes, why not?" asked Doyle for once, unfolding himself and looking up at Bodie as he rose. For an instant, he looked dreadfully vulnerable and uncertain. "What sort of entertainment?" enquired Doyle.

"Oh, a mill I suppose."

"Is there one?"

Bodie bit his lip in consternation. "No, that was last week, wasn’t it? Never mind, I’ll find something!"

In a short time, they were riding out in Bodie’s curricle with his best greys. Bodie found a cockfight scheduled to begin soon, betting already in full swing, and in a nearby ring, bear-baiting. Not in the mood to drop blunt on betting at the moment, he steered Doyle by the elbow towards the bear. They worked their way through the crowd to the fence, staying near one another. Doyle’s face had gone blank and abstract.

A dog harried the bear, and the snarling and savage growls were great on both sides. Blood ran from the dog’s mouth and the bear’s nose.

Doyle’s hand gripped convulsively tight on Bodie’s arm for an instant, hard enough to leave a bruise. "I don’t want to stay."

"What?" Bodie turned to him in surprise. Doyle had already released him and begun to work his way back through the crowd. Bodie followed, mystified by his changeability.

"Doyle. What is it?" He caught up with him by the curricle. Doyle turned to look at him wearing a haunted, unhappy expression, his eyes full of so many things, his mouth twisted small and bitter.

"You find it distasteful?" asked Bodie, softer now.

Ray nodded, hard. "I very much do. I thought you were taking me to a mill. It’s different with humans. They can say no. Most of the time." Abstractly, his hand stole towards his face and touched the ruined cheekbone.

Bodie found, without his conscious choice, that his hand had followed Doyle’s and moved to rest on top. "Is that what happened to you? You were forced to fight?"

Doyle nodded, turning his gaze away, ashamed. "After—shortly after I ran away from the theatre."

Bodie turned away, raked a hand back through his neatly arranged hair. His neckcloth felt constricted unpleasantly around his throat. "I could—" Quickly cutting himself off, Bodie caught Ray’s arm, and squeezed it, hard. "We’ll go, shall we?"

Doyle nodded, shame and relief mixed on his features.

The curricle was a small one, with just barely room for two people. Now, for an instant, Doyle leaned against Bodie’s arm. "Sorry for spoiling your fun. You could’ve just left me wander around town while you stayed."

_And risk losing you amongst the crowd?_

"No, I didn’t particularly want to watch anyway." He wondered again about this sad, gentle, tough, vulnerable man beside him who somehow had enough compassion left in his heart to worry about animals.

#

There was a gentle, leafy sound as the book flopped from Doyle’s hands, pages fluttering, and landed with a plop on the floor of the library. Bodie looked up in disbelief from his volume of poetry and stared at Doyle. He gave one offended blink and rose to pick up the book. It didn’t occur to him to wake Doyle and make him do it himself. But after a moment, it did occur to him that Doyle shouldn’t be falling asleep in the middle of the day.

_We didn’t even take any strenuous exercise today._

Bodie’s frown deepened. When they rode together, he excused Doyle’s tiredness afterwards. It was new to him; he was still not at an ideal weight; he hadn’t Bodie’s inborn stamina.

But today, with the rain drumming down...

_Why, he did nothing more difficult than read!_

Bodie’s mind slipped back to the time he’d found Doyle asleep during the day. Was this life too much for Doyle? (Then how had he possibly survived as a fruit-seller?)

_He must be growing ill._

Bodie stood over the sleeping, drooping figure of Ray Doyle. He looked ready to fall from his seat next, following the book’s descent.

It was odd how Bodie’s throat constricted so tightly when he thought of Doyle being ill, hurt, or unhappy.

Making up his mind abruptly, he bent and scooped his arms up under Doyle, lifting him easily. Doyle awoke with a little jerk, pulling back his head, startled, and stiffening in Bodie’s arms.

"What? What?" he croaked.

Bodie’s grip tightened briefly as he allowed himself this quick almost-embrace. "You fell asleep. I’m putting you to bed."

"Oh. No—no need." Doyle became immediately as hard to hold as a cat that didn’t wish it, stiffening and twisting to be free, demanding it without saying one word. Bodie was forced to put him down immediately unless he wanted to fight him.

Doyle straightened his shirt and gave Bodie an unreadable glance. "Sorry. I’ll get back to my books."

"No, no, Ray." Bodie caught him up and tugged his sleeve. "Go ahead, rest. I insist. You’re exhausted."

_I’ve pushed you too hard. Don’t get ill!_

Doyle cast him a hesitant look. "No, it’s... I didn’t sleep well last night."

"I am sorry to hear that. Would you like to have a sleeping draught to take at night?"

Doyle shook his head impatiently, frowning. "No. I’m fine."

Bodie faced him seriously. "Don’t make yourself ill, Ray."

"I shan’t." Doyle hurried away from him, as though he felt a mixture of guilt and relief.

Bodie stared after him, perplexed. But Ray seemed so healthy and confident still that the throb in Bodie’s chest went away. No one couldn’t be terribly ill and still act so, not even Doyle.

#

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter," called Bodie. He was bored enough of handling his correspondence that any distraction would be welcomed.

"Sir." Ainsley entered the room, dragging Doyle by the arm. Doyle looked ruffled and piqued, and his eyes flashed defiance at Bodie. Ainsley released him and looked particularly disapproving. He faced Bodie, now ignoring Doyle.

"Yes?" Bodie set down his pen. Ainsley had never grown any fonder of Doyle, and this particular pinch-mouthed, disapproving look was worse than most. "I trust you have a good explanation for interrupting me and hauling my guest around by the arm?"

"Yes, sir. I think you should know. Doyle has been sneaking out."

Bodie grinned and raised a brow. "Oh? Going out for a pint? How villainous of him, Ainsley." He glanced at Doyle, who stood rigid and sullen, arms crossed.

Ainsley’s mouth compressed further, making his face a mask like marble. "He slips out many nights. I only caught him at it this week, but he admitted to doing it quite often."

"Yes, and it’s not a crime!" burst out Doyle. Glowering, he surreptitiously rubbed his arm where Ainsley had wrenched him.

"How very wicked," said Bodie. "I appreciate your concern, Ainsley. Thank you, that is all."

He turned back to his papers, ignoring Ray Doyle.

The door closed behind Ainsley, but Bodie didn’t have to look up to know Doyle stayed. The moments ticked to minutes.

"Well?" said Ray at last, in sullen tones. "I suppose you’re going to read me a scold? Well I’ll have you know I don’t deserve it. You never said I couldn’t—"

"Yes, Raymond. I am well aware what I never said." He didn’t look up, but moved on to the next invitation slowly and let his eyes scan the words. If not one of them registered with him, it wasn’t for Doyle to know that, was it?

"Then... what?" asked Doyle cautiously. "You’re... hurt I didn’t tell you?" Without being asked, he pulled up a seat and sat down near Bodie. Bodie could almost feel Ray’s gaze boring into him, trying to figure him out.

Bodie turned to look at him at last, putting down his pen. "No, Ray. I was _worried_ about you. I thought you were getting ill.

Doyle stared at him a moment, the colour slowly deepening on his face. "Oh."

"Yes, Ray: oh! Am I such a harsh teacher and friend that you couldn’t admit you needed a little time on your own? Instead you had to sneak about like a thief and leave me to think I was pushing you too hard, sending you to your sickbed? You would rather sneak around than sleep. Very well. Your lessons will stop for now. Enjoy yourself, Raymond." He turned back to his papers.

"I didn’t mean— Look, that’s not fair, Bodie! I haven’t let you down. I’ve been working hard. You needn’t worry about me, you know. I—I can do both." His voice cracked a bit.

"I’ll not ask what ‘both’ things are, but it’s become abundantly clear to me that you chafe under the rules we set up. So go on, be free if you wish. How much more do I owe you?" He glared at Doyle, mouth tight, eyes hard with anger.

He was startled to see a bleak look pass across Doyle’s features, a very unhappy expression. "You wish me to leave?" he asked in a flat voice.

"No!" Bodie jumped to his feet. "But I’m tired of you acting as though I’m forcing something on you, or trying to hurt you. Believe me, I’ve meant you nothing but good since we met. Yet you always seem to think—" He broke off. He didn’t know what Ray thought: that was part of the problem.

Doyle’s throat bobbed. "That’s not fair, Bodie." He looked him straight in the eye. "I told you. I told you how me mum was a kept woman. I can’t be a kept man. I don’t care if it’s ‘just for a joke.’ That doesn’t make any difference." He took a deep, shaky breath. "I’m just a toy to you, and you’ll throw me away once you grow tired of me. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to admit it. But Sir George was right. He said you—well, he said—never mind! But I realised I have to have somewhere I can go once that happens. So I rented a room, and I’ve been looking for other work—corresponding for work I might be able to do. Because this isn’t a game to me. This is my _life_ , Bodie."

"Your life," said Bodie bitterly. "And you can’t trust me enough to correspond from here!"

Ray flushed but stared at Bodie steadily. "Do you have any idea what it’s like to fall into such a well of good fortune and kindness—and know that it may all be taken away in a moment, because someone tires of a ‘joke?’ Of course I didn’t wish to give you cause to send me away. Though I admit sometimes I almost wish you would so I could stop h-hoping you wouldn’t." He turned away abruptly, his eyes suspiciously bright.

"Ray." Almost without realising he did so, Bodie moved forward. "You must know—" He gulped.

"What, Bodie? What must I know?" Doyle looked up at him: bleak, vulnerable, and tired: all the things Bodie hated to see in him. He would much rather face a stroppy or mischievous Doyle than see these expressions on Doyle’s face.

Bodie said nothing for a moment, stunned and searching for the words.

Doyle watched him with a weary expression. "Because I promise you, I don’t know, Bodie. If you mean to say you wouldn’t throw me away, that you shall never tire of playing teacher and friend, then I have to disagree. To you this has all been a joke, so how do I know you won’t tire of it? But you’ve changed my _life_. On a whim. You’ve got me used to—to things I shouldn’t be used to. Sometimes, I hate you for it. How can I ever go back to what I knew before, when y-you spoil m-me with soft beds and plenty of food, and—and laugh at my jokes?" He finished in a shaky voice.

Bodie exploded. "Bloody hell! Of course I mean to keep you here. I don’t want you to go. I hate the idea of trying to force you to do anything, but I sometimes contemplate how I could make you stay forever. What do you want me to say? That I was lonely and subject to dark moods before you entered my life? That you’ve cheered me up and given me a purpose—even if it’s ‘merely’ to teach you and tease you? Do you—do you think I often invite urchins into my home and try to teach them enough that they can stay? Or do you think I suffer arrogant fools gladly, that I always let you say and do whatever you want in defiance of me, no matter how it hurts?" He glared at Doyle. "I just want you, Doyle. I want you to stay here with me forever, because I can’t contemplate being alone anymore. It is so lonely sometimes, even in crowds. But I’m never lonely when you’re here."

Doyle moved forward, as if pulled on strings. "R-really?"

For answer, Bodie caught him close and enveloped him in a hug, rib-crushingly tight. Doyle felt thin, muscular, and bony in his arms. His curls were soft against Bodie’s cheek and neck. "I would do anything—anything, Ray." He breathed deeply through his mouth, trying to control his emotions. "Stay with me. Stay. Forget the stupid joke."

Doyle’s arms tightened around him, hard, then released. He pulled back and looked Bodie in the eye. "I’ll need a job. I can’t be like my mother, just something decorative for sale or rent. I—I can’t."

"Oh, Ray, I’d never buy you and I never could. But I want you to share my life." He grinned. "And I’m sure you can find something useful to do about the place so you don’t feel ‘kept.’"

Doyle gave a shaky grin in reply. "I could sell your pineapples on the street. I’m quite good at selling things."

Bodie’s hands tightened on Doyle’s arms. "We shall arrange it," he said in pompous tones. "Or perhaps you could muck out my stables."

Doyle’s mouth twitched. "Or... polish the silverware?"

"No, I’m sorry, Raymond. I’d never trust you with the silverware," said Bodie gently, trying not to smile.

This drew a startled blink from Doyle. "Why—"

"You’d grow frustrated and fling it against the walls. Come here." He caught one arm round Doyle, and with the other reached up to scrub his curls.

"I’ll fling something against the walls!" Doyle pushed away from him and cast him a laughing, challenging look, his eyes bright with pent up emotion. Then he took off running from the room. His feet pounded, sounding so fast and free.

Without hesitation, Bodie followed.

　

　

<<<>>>


End file.
